He hopes to make it from his apartment
to that store where the girl in the lottery ticket
dress and Lady Liberty headgear hangs around outside
and hands out pamphlets
for that church that has free barbeque on Tuesdays.

He hopes to make it
without sharing either one of his last two cigarettes.
Since Christmas he’s been trying to quit by calling up
one of his deeply ashamed relatives every time
he crawls onto the roof overlooking Sun Stroke Alley
and fires one up.

Since Christmas he’s given up being a smartass.
Since New Year’s Eve he’s given up so much as setting
foot into his kitchen after eleven p.m.

It’s four blocks from his apartment to the store.
There’s four churches, two hotdog stands,
five Holy Ghost’s, two seasons, a Radio Shack
and a game the homeless kids like to play
with bricks and overdeveloped telekinesis.

In the six months, he’s become paranoid
and trusts the afternoon about as much
as he trusts a delivery guy who’s willing to drop off
food and best wishes without getting out of the car.

The only reason
why he’s going to the store is because
he wants his knees to work for a couple
more years. He’s pretty sure everything can be delivered
in three days or less.

It’s four blocks and too many houses,
too many neighbors with cameras and red eyes.

A lot of them remember him from that time
he weaved in and out
of the lost cars making pauper’s graves out of potholes
and asked everyone within earshot for directions to the house
of a friend who lived and died six states over.

Some of them will say hi and keep from cracking
so much as a smile until he’s around the corner.
Most can’t wait that long, and a few still feel
surprisingly violent about something
they couldn’t have controlled in the first place.

Maybe that’s the problem.

He doesn’t bite his nails over control
and has long since given his nostalgia and receipts
over to the second church from his house.

Their standing promise is to keep a room ready
in the back when love finally goes down swinging
and lightning storms punch little holes in his ceiling
as big as the heart of Chicago and San Francisco combined.

He likes that. He also likes that girl in the lottery ticket dress
in spite of some infamous run-ins
with local mental health authorities.

Unfortunately. She doesn’t like his mean streak.
It’s been well-established.

03/16/2010

Posted on 03/16/2010
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard